


but tonight, we're all believers

by folignos



Category: Hockey RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/pseuds/folignos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew has a name on his wrist, just like everyone else. He wasn’t born with it. It came in when he was about eighteen months old, tiny neat script above the blue veins.</p>
<p>It’s just like everyone else’s, for all intents and purposes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but tonight, we're all believers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [titaniumsporkery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/titaniumsporkery/gifts).



> okay so aaron doesn't actually celebrate christmas, but i wanted to get him a non-specific holiday present anyway, so. this is what he's getting. aaaages ago we got really emotional about brandon saad wanting to learn arabic, because his dad's from syria. this... is kind of what resulted from that.
> 
> title from tonight by magic man
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://toewses.tumblr.com)! (and i promise this is the last fic from me until the new year, i'm sure you're all bored of me monopolising the tag)

Andrew has a name on his wrist, just like everyone else. He wasn’t born with it. It came in when he was about eighteen months old, tiny neat script above the blue veins.

It’s just like everyone else’s, for all intents and purposes. He’s not one of the people who never got a name, or the people who woke up one day and found a mass of scar tissue instead of a name.

He has a soulmate. He’s certain of that.

He just doesn’t know what his wrist says.

-

When Andrew’s old enough to ask, his mom tells him that it’s in a different language, and that’s why it looks funny.

‘Arabic,’ she says.

‘What’s it say?’ Andrew asks.

His mom just shakes her head, and says she doesn’t know. ‘Do you want to find out?’ she asks. ‘There are specialists.’

Andrew thinks about it, and shakes his head. ‘When I meet her, she’ll know, right?’

His mom nods.

‘Then I want to wait until I meet her,’ he says, determined.

-

Everyone knows about Sidney Crosby and his Russian soulmate. There was a huge story about it when he got drafted by Rimouski, and his wrist was exposed during a press conference.

Yevgeni, one website announces, and that just sparks a whole controversy about how Yevgeni is a boy’s name, and is the future star of the NHL gay, and after that Andrew just kind of stops looking at the internet so much.

He traces across his wrist, and wonders if he has a boy’s name there too.

-

He wears a wrist guard to play hockey because it’s required by the CHL, and because hockey players are a bunch of nosy fuckers who ask more questions than is good for their health.

He meets one guy who’s met his soulmate, and someone else who doesn’t have one at all. When they ask about his, he just deflects. Eventually, they stop asking.

He just wants to play hockey.

-

When he’s eighteen, he goes undrafted, signs with a new OHL team, and meets Sara.

Sara’s mom is from Afghanistan, and she speaks fluent Arabic. She keeps her wrists mostly covered, but he catches her name a couple of weeks into dating her, when she’s washing her hands at his kitchen sink. He hooks his chin over her shoulder to kiss her cheek and just happens to glance down and see _Michael_ in neat, tiny capitals, the same print that everyone else who has their soulmate's name in English has.

They date for a little while longer. It’s nice, Andrew thinks, but she’s not his soulmate, and he’s not hers. It just feels… kind of incomplete.

He doesn’t ask her what his wrist says. He doesn’t show her his wrist the entire time they’re dating, and she doesn’t ask.

-

When he’s nineteen, he goes undrafted and meets Sam.

Sam is from Saskatoon and works at a bar called Chemical Reaction. He has half his head shaved, a lip piercing, and a black square tattooed across his wrist.

‘I didn’t care,’ he says, when Andrew asks him. ‘If I fall in love, I don’t want it to be dictated by some stupid tattoo I didn’t ask for.’

He dates Sam for almost six months, and gets his mohawk bleached blond. When Sam moves to Vancouver, Andrew shaves it off and doesn’t date anyone else for a long time.

-

He gets drafted by the Chicago fuckin’ _Blackhawks_.

In the NHL, you have to keep your wrist covered at all times, unless you’re in the locker room. Andrew’s okay with that.

He meets a couple of bonded players for the first time, Keith and Seabrook (which explains a lot about them, he thinks). They try to convince Andrew that they can read each other’s minds.

‘But the bond isn’t a psychic thing,’ he says. Duncs laughs, and tilts his head at Seabs, who isn’t looking at either of them, but holds out his water bottle anyway.

‘Bullshit,’ Andrew declares, but. He does wonder.

He suspects Kane and Toews of being bonded too, they fight like two dogs on the bench, and they’re forgiven by the time they get to the locker room, talking quietly to each other in the corner. They keep their wrist guards on even in the locker room, but Andrew sees the small touches they share, knows that even if they’re not soulmates, they’re something.

He meets Brandon Saad at prospect camp.

Brandon Saad has incredible eyebrows and really blue eyes and is two years younger than him, but looks twenty five. He smiles a lot, doesn’t say much, but he skates like, well, like he’s been doing it his whole life. He out-skates everyone else with ease, and he’s got a wicked snapshot.

Andrew’s always loved good hockey, but this is something else.

-

They get on like a house on fire.

Andrew spends a couple of days with him and figures out how to coax him out of his shell. Turns out he’s got a sense of humour as sharp as his skates, and can chirp with the best of them.

The team call them Mutt and the Manchild, and it feels almost like family.

-

He goes to Rockford and Saader goes back to his OHL team. He meets another Brandon, Bolly, who calls him midget but also buys him beer, and doesn’t shy away when Andrew jumps on him. It’s a match made in heaven.

Bolly doesn’t have a name on his wrist, just a thick tangle of silver white skin.

‘I was… thirteen, I think?’ he says one night, over takeout. Andrew’s sprawled on the floor of his apartment, nursing his food baby. ‘Just woke up in the middle of the night because my wrist itched and the name was gone.’

Andrew doesn’t really know what to say. ‘What did it used to say?’

Bolly shrugs, looks at him. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Guess not.’ Andrew reaches for another container for something to do. ‘I don’t know what mine says,’ he says eventually. Bolly frowns.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know what it says?’

Andrew undoes the clasp, slips his wrist out of the guard, holds his arm out palm up for Bolly. ‘It’s in Arabic, apparently. I never got it translated.’

‘Why not?’

Andrew shrugs. ‘I figured when I met them, I’d know, you know?’ He lifts his beer to his lips, but it’s empty.

Bolly tips his head, neutrally, and goes to get another two beers.

-

Saader flirts a lot.

It’s almost a thing. Andrew’s not thinking about it.

Except for when he is.

He’s about eighty percent sure that Saader has no idea he’s doing it.

They Skype every couple of days, and Saader’s always thrilled to see him, always smiles so wide. He doesn’t wear a shirt very often, will Skype Andrew from his bed in Saginaw with messy hair and a bare chest.

Andrew’s.. well, he’s only human, and there are only so many times he can listen to Saader talk about hockey like it’s sex before he starts getting distracted.

He never brings it up, but he’s pretty sure Saader figures it out. The Skype calls get more frequent, the shirts less.

Andrew’s not complaining, really, but. Saginaw is a long way from Rockford.

-

Andrew gets another scar in his NHL debut, throwing down with a Flyer. He gets his ass kicked, but he grins at the Flyers bench with blood in his teeth as he heads for the locker room. He gets seven stitches over his eyebrow, and the respect of every single guy in the locker room.

He gets a text from Saader later, _nice fight_ and then, _goon_ , almost immediately after.

Andrew texts him back an emoji of a fist, and several smiley faces. They text back and forth until Andrew’s adrenaline crash makes him pass out on the couch.

-

Saader gets named captain on his OHL team. Andrew texts him a series of firework emojis and calls him Captain Manchild for at least a week.

‘Shut up,’ Saader says, when Andrew calls him. ‘I hate you, stop calling me that.’

‘You don’t hate me at all,’ Andrew says. ‘You _love_ me.’

Saader laughs a little bit, but… doesn’t disagree.

-

Andrew takes advantage of the All Star Break to roadtrip back home for a couple of days.

He google maps Saginaw on a whim, and texts Saader.

_free ur schedule it’s party time_.

He gets a row of question marks in return, and Andrew texts him a screencap of his route with the caption _road trip baby!_

_:D!_ Saader texts, and Andrew grins and pumps his fist.

-

Saginaw is cold and snowy. Just like Chicago, really, but unlike Chicago, it has _Saader_ , wrapped in a scarf and a Saginaw Spirit toque and about three sweaters.

‘You’re pathetic,’ Andrew tells him, getting out of the car. ‘You wanna see real snow, wait until we play in Winnipeg next season.’

Saader pulls a face, hugging him.

‘So,’ Andrew says. ‘I have twenty four hours. What is there to do in Saginaw?’

The answer turns out to be not a lot. Saader makes him dinner, and they crash on the sofa together in his tiny, two room apartment, playing Halo. Turns out Andrew is terrible at Halo, but he is excellent at dying early and then annoying Saader into dying shortly after. The third time it happens, Saader gives up, flicks off the XBox and tosses his controller onto the scuffed coffee table.

‘I gotta say, I’m honestly surprised you have furniture,’ Andrew says.

Saader grins at him. ‘My mom came to visit unexpectedly. I had a TV and a mattress. Now I have a couch and a coffee table and a bed frame that I promised to assemble before Christmas.’

‘You’re a terrible son,’ Andrew says, cranes his head to look pointedly at the mattress, still on the floor, and the frame propped up behind the couch.

Saader shrugs. ‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.’

‘Terrible,’ Andrew says.

It turns out that while Saader’s couch is definitely comfy enough to spend a night on, he owns exactly one blanket.

‘We’re bunking together,’ Andrew decides, peels his hoodie off and dives onto the mattress, wraps himself in the blanket. Saader chuckles, and joins him, shoving until he’s got about half the mattress.

Andrew learns that Saader a) is a cuddler, b) sleeps like the absolute fucking dead, and c) is a zombie until at least early afternoon, and no amount of caffeine can fix that.

It’s probably a sign of how fucking far gone Andrew is that when he wakes up with Saader’s entire body weighing him down, he’s happy to just lie there and go back to sleep in the warmth.

-

When Andrew’s getting ready to leave, throwing his bag into his trunk and shoving the hat he stole from Saader when he wasn’t looking on his head, there’s… a moment, he guesses.

Saader comes up behind him, hooks his chin over his shoulder and slings his arms around his waist, fingers jabbing at his sides.

‘...Can I help you?’ Andrew says, twisting around, and he guesses he didn’t realise how close Saader was, but it’s very. ‘Um.’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Saader says, dropping his hands and backing off. ‘Um.’

‘I should. Go,’ Andrew says, jerking his thumb at his car uselessly.

‘Yeah,’ Saader says, hands by his sides before he pulls Andrew into a hug. ‘Text me when you get to Belleville.’

‘Yes, Mom,’ Andrew says, but he hugs back anyway.

When he hits Belleville he texts Saader a picture, with the caption _didn’t die in a firey crash!_

Saader sends him a thumbs up emoji and a picture of one of Andrew’s shirts. _i’m holding it hostage until u give my hat back_ , he texts.

_keep it, the hat is my new favourite thing_ , Andrew says, and laughs when Saader sends him a half dozen sad faces in return.

-

Andrew gets sent back down to Rockford in February.

Saader Skypes him that night, while Andrew’s packing his shit.

‘You know, you’re gonna get the call up again soon,’ Saader says. ‘You’re good, Andy.’

Andrew shrugs. ‘You _are_ ,’ Saader insists. ‘Next season, you and me are gonna be the next Kane and Toews, you’ll see.’

That makes Andrew laugh.

‘Seriously though,’ Saader says, sitting up in bed. ‘Keep playing like you’re playing. You’ll get the call up in no time.’

Andrew hums in agreement, and change the subject. When he gets called up again a couple of weeks later, he doesn’t even have time to text Saader before his phone buzzes with _told you so_ and a series of increasingly smug smileys.

-

The playoffs fucking suck. Andrew gets a suspension and fifteen minutes of penalties, and shit all else.

Saader gets called up after his suspension, plays in two games while Andrew sits in the press box. He’s not playing when they get eliminated by the fucking _Yotes_. Doesn’t have to file off the ice with a ducked head like Andrew did.

He comes down to the locker room afterwards, shifting like he doesn’t think he should be there. He has a quiet word with Leddy, who he’d hit it off with almost immediately over the past few days, crouched in front of his stall.

When he stands up and looks around the room, Andrew feels like hiding, but Saader spots him, and heads over to crouch in front of him. ‘Hey, Mutt,’ he says, soft. ‘You doin’ okay?’

Andrew snorts, and bends down to unlace his skates. ‘I’ve been better,’ he says, bitter.

‘Wanna come back to the hotel and get drunk from the minibar?  Leddy’s coming. Bolly, too.’

‘Did you make friends with the entire team while I was in the press box?’ Andrew asks. Saader flushes a little.

‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘Come drink cheap whiskey with us. It’ll make you feel better.’

Andrew squints. ‘Are you even old enough to drink?’

‘I’m as legal as you are,’ Saader points out. Andrew pulls a face, but agrees, tugs at his shin pads until the fastening gives. Saader grins, and leaves him to it, goes and has a word with Tazer, sitting in the corner looking like he’s been told he can’t play hockey anymore.

-

Saader’s hotel room is not big enough for the four giant hockey players sprawled across it (okay, three giant and Andrew), but they do their best. Andrew sits on Bolly’s lap at one point, stealing sips of his gin and tonic, because apparently Bolly is forty years old.

‘If it’s such a terrible drink, why are you drinking it all?’ Bolly asks, shoving him off his lap. The gin and tonic ends up in the carpet.

‘I should have scored more goals,’ Leddy says, mournfully. ‘I should have scored all the goals.’ He’s lying on the carpet staring at the ceiling. Every so often he lifts his head and tries to pour beer in his mouth. There’s a damp patch on the collar of his shirt.

‘I know, buddy,’ Andrew says from his new seat, reaches out and pats him on the belly comfortingly. ‘Gross, Bolly, you dropped me in the wet spot.’

Leddy snickers.

‘Aright,’ Bolly says. ‘I’m gonna pour this one into a cab and make sure he doesn’t die on the way home.’ He kicks at Andrew gently with his foot, puts his hand on Saader’s shoulder. ‘Don’t drink yourselves unconscious.’

Saader nods, silent, but Andrew says, ‘I promise nothing,’ loudly, and makes a show of finishing his beer messily.

And then it’s just the two of them. The skin underneath Andrew’s wrist guard itches.

Saader’s rolled his sleeves up. His wrist guard is simple and black, not the team one that everyone else wears. He sees Andrew looking at it, and shrugs. ‘I like this one. Didn’t want to switch it out yet. I’m not on the team.’

It’s wrong, obviously Saader’s on the team, but Andrew doesn’t know how to say it without sounding like an asshole.

His wrist still itches. He unclasps his guard and angles the name in towards himself. ‘I hate this fucking thing,’ he says, scratching at the skin until it turns pink. ‘I wouldn’t care so much if I could fucking read it.’

Saader tilts his head at him.

‘It’s not in English,’ Andrew says. ‘Like how Crosby has Russian.’

‘Your soulmate’s Russian?’ Saader asks. ‘That’s kind of cool.’

Andrew shakes his head. ‘It’s in Arabic.’

Saader’s eyebrows furrow. ‘My dad’s from Syria,’ he offers. He looks like he’s thinking hard about something. He rolls down his shirt sleeves.

‘Can you read it?’ Andrew asks, but before he has a chance to show him, Saader’s shaking his head.

‘I don’t speak it. I’m gonna. Go to the bathroom,’ Saader says, standing up and almost knocking over the small cluster of empty bottles. ‘And then I’m gonna go to bed, I think.’

‘Oh,’ Andrew says. He feels like he missed a really large part of that conversation. Maybe he drank more than he realised. ‘I should… probably go then.’

Saader nods. ‘Uh.  I’ll see you in a couple of days? At clear out day.’

Andrew mirrors the nods back, and leaves. He feels out of sorts until he gets back to his own hotel room, a couple of floors up.

-

Clear out day is weird and somber and no one wants to talk to Andrew, which is fine by him.

Saader catches him on the way out of the building, grabs his elbow. ‘Hey, we should get lunch. Or dinner. I don’t actually know what time it is. It feels like I’ve been in there forever. But food. Is a thing that should happen.’

‘Lunch,’ Andrew decides. Saader beams at him.

-

‘So I was talking to my dad,’ Saader launches into the conversation while Andrew’s driving them to the restaurant. ‘About your wrist.’

Andrew nearly crashes the car. As it is, he just manages to pull over to the side of the road.

‘Don’t worry, I didn’t mention you,’ Saader hurries to say. ‘I just told him I had a friend whose wristname was in Arabic.’ He pauses.

‘And?’ Andrew prompts.

Saader pushes up the sleeve of his shirt. He’s not wearing his wrist guard. Andrew’s very glad he’s not currently driving, because Saader’s wrist says _Andrew_ in small capitals. ‘I asked him how to write my name in Arabic,’ Saader says. He wriggles in his seat, pulls a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket, unfolds it. There’s tens of dozens of scribbles on the page, almost illegible in the top and neater, more recognisable at the bottom.

‘Oh,’ Andrew says. He doesn’t really know what else to say, so he says it again, a little quieter. Brandon. His wrist says _Brandon_.

‘So. I think we might be soulmates,’ Saader-- Brandon says.

‘I… that seems like a fair assumption,’ Andrew says. He looks down at the Hawks red wristguard.

Brandon reaches out. ‘Can I?’ he asks. Andrew holds out his wrist. Brandon unclasps the guard and slides it off, runs his thumb over the letters, gently.

‘You know, these bonds are platonic about forty percent of the time,’ Andrew says, weakly.

Brandon looks at him. His eyes are really, really blue, Andrew thinks nonsensically. ‘Is that what you want?’ he asks quietly.

Andrew chews his lower lip, and throws caution to the winds. ‘No,’ he says.

Brandon’s smile is like the lights at the UC. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Me neither.’ His hand is still on Andrew’s wrist. Andrew twists until they’re holding hands, fingers laced together.

‘Let’s go back to the hotel,’ Brandon says. ‘We’ll get room service. We should… talk.’

Andrew nods, and pulls back out into the traffic. He drives on auto pilot, still one hand wrapped around Brandon’s.

-

Andrew’s room is tidier, so they go there, sit cross legged on the bed facing each other. Andrew keeps running his fingers across the name on his wrist.

‘Do we tell the team?’ Brandon asks. He looks worried, chewing on the inside of his cheek. ‘We should tell them, right, they should know.’

‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Andrew says.

‘So what _do_ we do?’ Brandon asks.

‘What we want, I guess,’ Andrew says, looking down at his wrist again.

‘I want to kiss you,’ Brandon says, and then turns pink.

‘We can do that,’ Andrew says, and leans in. Brandon’s lips are dry from the cold, a little chapped, but he’s responsive, opening up for Andrew almost immediately. His hands are cradling Andrew’s jaw, tilting his head. Brandon’s smiling, and Andrew’s pretty sure he is, too.

He can’t really bring himself to care, is the thing, just keeps kissing Brandon until they’re sprawled across the bed, tangled together.

He feels like he could do this forever.

 


End file.
